


So Many Hours

by Obbel



Category: Latinx Celebrities RPF, Reggaeton RPF
Genre: Bad Decisions, M/M, Miami, Reggaeton, This is technically songfic but I refuse to tag it as such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 00:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obbel/pseuds/Obbel
Summary: This would be his chance to fix things, to abandon this suicide mission and just leave Maluma alone. But he doesn’t. He runs after Maluma like a dog after a squirrel.





	So Many Hours

Balvin is lying spread eagle on the bed in his hotel, staring at the ceiling fan. He’s trying to watch one particular blade as it circles a full rotation, but the fan is spinning as fast as it will go. He keeps losing focus, eyes jumping back to the same point in space but failing to track the blade as the fan spins around and around and around. It’s not making him dizzy like he thought it would.

He wonders if he really needs a job after all.

He probably has enough money to call up Jessy and tell him to go fuck himself, and that he won’t be at the shoot tomorrow.

But he wouldn’t do that. Jessy is a nice person, and he’ll probably regret it the next time he needs a director. Because he will need a director again. Because that’s what he _does_. He makes music, and his music needs videos, and yes, he still wants to do this.

Yes, he tells himself. You make music and you make videos and that pays your bills and it’s also been your dream since you were a kid and _what the fuck are you doing get the fuck up off the bed you lazy hijueputa._

So.

He hauls himself up into a sitting position. Baby steps.

Miami has him on edge. He’s has been here for what feels like a decade, and now he remembers why he doesn’t like it here. There are no people in this city, just nicely arranged body parts. Lots of metal, lots of plastic. And it’s very hot.

Maybe it impressed him when he was a teenager, here on vacation from Tampa and his shitty life. But things are different now. Now he has a good life, he tells himself.

Now he knows all the Lamborghinis on Ocean Boulevard are rented, mostly by the hour. The real money stays at home, enjoys their privacy.

He should be at home, enjoying his privacy.

He’s been away for too long. Maybe he can go home now, just for the night. He’s about to pull up flights on his phone, just for laughs. He has “vuelos miami a medellín” typed in the search bar and he’s going to press enter, but he stops himself. He really might leave if he finds something flying out tonight. Jessy would kill him.

He rolls his eyes.

It’s the weather, he thinks. It’s supposed to be winter, but no one told Florida that. It’s miserable. He was outside for maybe an hour, and he had to go back to the hotel, sweaty and recognized by too many people. He took photos and signed autographs until he couldn’t take it anymore, then made his excuses and ran away.

It’s not the weather, he thinks. He’s just crazy. He gets a little anxious every time he has to come to the US, but this time has been especially bad. At least here, at the end of the country. America’s penis, Liam had called it. New York wasn’t nearly as suffocating.

There’s no escape. It’s just the city and the beach and the end. The water, and he’s not that good of a swimmer. So he’s trapped here, in this flat, fake little city where everyone speaks Spanish, and it still feels wrong. Why come to America just to hear his own language? What a ripoff.

He sighs.

He’s stuck. There are no mountains to climb higher, higher, to get out of his head. No endless jungle to disappear into - not that he would do that. He just likes the idea, having the option, that he could say _fuck it_ to everything he’s built and just fuck off into the wilderness. And probably get himself offed by terrorists. Total self destruction. But not that he would ever do that.

Staying in the hotel, then. Until tomorrow.

Fuck that.

He closes Google and locks his phone. He gets off the bed and walks out of the bedroom into the living area. He turns the TV on and flips through the stations. News, old soaps, some American show, recaps of soccer. Real Madrid lose to Villarreal in overtime. Of fucking course, he thinks. He turns it off.

Fuck this, he says. Maybe he can get drunk. Maybe he’ll call Nicky.

He doesn’t call Nicky.

He walks out onto the balcony and stares at the ocean, then the beach down below, and he has the quiet urge to throw himself over the edge. He imagines free falling, the adrenaline of seeing the earth rush up to meet him. But he pushes the thought away. He’s not high up enough. It would just be a painful waste of time.

The sun is setting over the beach. It really is beautiful. Motherfucker, he thinks. Stop being so negative. This is the dream. His dream. Literally everything he’s ever wanted since he was a teenager, fuck, get yourself together.

And he’s trying to distract himself from his stupid thoughts, so he opens up Snapchat and takes some pictures of the sunset and adds it to his story, #labuenavibra. Then he takes a selfie. He uses the dog filter. Sticks his tongue out, and winks. He deletes it.

He goes back into the bedroom and throws his phone on the bed. Then he throws himself on the bed and picks up his phone again. He unlocks it, and Snapchat is still up. He looks at everyone’s story, then switches to Instagram and looks at everyone’s story there. _Que tonto_ , he thinks. It’s exactly the same as Snapchat. But he posts a video anyway.

 _“Buenos dias buenos dias buenodiabuenodiiiiiaaaas,”_ he says, talking as fast as he can. He rattles off something about positive vibes, visualizing your success. And he starts singing, because what the fuck. He figures he should promote his new song. He hashtags the caption and promises the real music video soon. Tomorrow he shoots it. Today, he feels like shooting himself.

Stop it, he thinks. _Stopitstopitstopit_ , as if he were scolding a disobedient child. Maybe he is.

He sighs again, then closes his eyes. He tries to meditate, counting his breath. He gets up to ten seconds in between inhales and exhales, but it’s not enough. He sits up, then walks back out onto the balcony.

The sun is lower in the sky now, almost gone. He’s wasted an hour doing nothing.

He lights a cigarette, and inhales, counting to ten. That’s better. He smokes half, then puts it out, knowing it’ll fuck with his voice tomorrow for the shoot. Oh well, he thinks. So will drinking, but that’s what he has planned for the rest of the night.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens up his contacts. He tries to hit N, but his fingers are too clumsy for the little letters running down the side. The address book jumps to M.

“Maluma” is the first contact, and he almost wants to call. Just to hear a familiar accent, something that sounds like home.

 _Hola parce, qué hubo pues_ , he rehearses what he’d say. Something _bien_ _paisa_ , just to make Maluma laugh and take some of the awkwardness away. And Maluma would probably be friendly enough and maybe that would make him feel better.

But he doesn’t call. That would be weird.

He scrolls past “mama” and a lot of “marica”’s and gets to “Nicky Nicky Nicky Jam”. He hits FaceTime.

 _“Oye papi!"_ Nicky is lying more than sitting on his couch, reclined so much that his shoulders are barely above his lower half. It gives him a double chin that makes the tattoos on his neck connect seamlessly with his beard. He doesn’t have a shirt on.

“What’s up? You miss me too much? You can’t wait for tomorrow?” Nicky laughs.

 _“Ya, ya,"_ Balvin says. “What are you doing? Let’s go out. _Estoy pa’ tomar.”_

Nicky pulls himself up, sitting like a normal person now. He looks concerned.

“Bro, you know I can’t help you with that. And we’re shooting tomorrow. I want to get a good night’s sleep. You know? Gotta be bright eyed and bushy tailed and all that shit,” he says, his face serious.

“Shut the fuck up,” Balvin says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not even late. Let’s go eat or something.”

Nicky cracks himself up, unable to keep up the act for even a minute. _"Ya, vamo’,”_ he says, clapping his hands and rubbing them together, still grinning. He yells to someone Balvin can’t see, and a woman’s voice yells back, asking him to come into the kitchen.

Nicky stands up, and doesn’t bother to keep the camera on his face. Balvin sees Nicky’s house upside down, phone swinging as Nicky walks from one room into another. There’s a woman sitting on the countertop, Balvin thinks. Or maybe not. It’s kind of hard to tell.

Nicky’s face shows up on Balvin’s phone again.

“Let me call you back, bro,” he says, not looking at the camera.

“Use protection,” Balvin yells at the phone. “Don’t give her your nasty diseases!”

He can hear her laughter, and Nicky flips him off.

“Shut the fuck up man, that’s my wife,” he says. But he’s not mad. He brings the camera back to focus on his face and waggles his eyebrows.

That’s the last thing Balvin sees before Nicky cuts the call.

He thinks maybe he should feel angry, for being short-changed like that, but he doesn’t really feel anything at all. He stays out on the balcony until the humidity and the mosquitoes force him back inside.

He heads into the bathroom to shower, and then he _is_ angry.

Fucking Nicky and his bullshit. He should make time for his friends since he lives with his wife. Since he sees her literally every day. But he is really trying not to take it personally, trying to be a little more empathetic, like all his medical professionals have suggested.

No, he tells himself. Calm down. It’s not that a big of a deal.

He places his hands on the edge of the countertop and rolls his shoulder blades up and back, then pulls them inwards, towards each other. He lets his head roll loosely from side to side, making slow semi circles. His neck pops, obnoxiously loud in the bathroom. He winces.

He lifts his head to look at his reflection in the mirror, and he feels like he’s been blind-sighted, hit by a car because he wasn't looking as he crossed the street. All the frustration with Nicky falls away, and all he can focus on is himself. He’s staring, now, at himself. Looking in his own eyes _with_ his own eyes.

He has tunnel vision so badly that he can’t make himself look away, and it frightens him. He suddenly becomes very aware of his existence, the fact that he is here, now. Living and breathing. A conscious being with the free will to do whatever it wants at any moment. A conscious being who is looking at itself in the mirror and freaking out. Because not only is he aware of his existence, now he’s aware of his awareness.

It’s too intimate, too scary. And besides, he doesn’t have time for an existential crisis. He wills himself to look at something else, anything else, and he finds refuge staring at the bags under his eyes, the pores next to his nose. He looks at his hairline and runs his hands over his head.

His hair’s been short for a while now, but he’s still not used to it. He doesn’t like it. It’s too low maintenance, too natural. There’s no neon rainbow to gel every morning, no color to maintain. Nothing for people to talk about, other than him.

He should grow it out again, he decides, and his hands move to his chin. He should shave, too. He looks at his sad beard, coming in patchy like it always does. Anitta says he looks better clean shaven, and she’s probably right.

Okay, he thinks. Shaving. At least that will kill some time. And he feels better, now. Not so paralyzed by the immediacy of being alive. He has a plan.

He has half his face done when his phone buzzes. It’s from Nicky. It says “im coming to pick u up bro” in English.

Of course, he thinks. Awesome timing. You’ve done it again, Nicky, good job.

But he really needs to get out of his head, needs to get out of his hotel. Otherwise he’ll spend all night right here in the bathroom, he knows that. So he doesn’t reply with anything mean like he wants to, doesn’t tell Nicky to fuck off and find someone else to inconvenience while he fucks around, just replies with a thumbs up emoji and finishes shaving, then hops in the shower and tries to enjoy the hot water.

He’s just toweled off and gotten some pants on when Nicky throws open the door to his room. Apparently he’d forgotten to lock it.

“Hey man, lock your doors,” Nicky scolds him. “I could be anybody. I could be here to kill you right now.” And, too late, Balvin realizes that Nicky’s given himself an idea. He hesitates a second too long, and Nicky seizes the opportunity. He lunges forward, gets Balvin in a headlock with one arm around his neck and the other pushing at the back of his head.

“See! See!” Nicky yells and hops around, dragging Balvin with him. “Bro! You’d be dead right now if I was a real _sicario!”_ He’s grinning and yelling, and Balvin gets in a few good hits before Nicky can’t control his laughter anymore and lets him go.

Balvin managed to knock Nicky’s hat off. He snatches it up and puts it on his own head.

“Grow up, man,” he says, crossing his arms. Then he sticks his tongue out, and Nicky cracks up again. He flops down on a chair.

Balvin leaves him there, still laughing, and goes to find a shirt.

 

\---

 

Nicky’s decided he wants to go to some douchey club in Miami Beach, but they don’t open for almost an hour. Instead they go to a little Cuban place in Hialeah. Nicky complained the whole time that he was being used as a chauffeur, but he shut up once Balvin plied him with _medianoches_ and french fries. Fuck their diets.

“Okay, man, fine, you’re right. It was worth coming here,” Nicky says, mouth full of sandwich.

“You’re gross,” Balvin tells him. “Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”

“Shut up,” Nicky says. He throws a french fry at Balvin, who catches it, and eats it. “Don’t talk to me about my mom or my mom’s mom or my mom’s mom’s mom ever again.”

“What the fuck,” Balvin says, but Nicky already has his phone out, and he shoves it in Balvin’s face. Balvin picks it up and looks. There’s a picture of four almost identical cats, sitting in a line like those Russian stacking dolls, each one smaller than the last one.

“I know you’ve seen this. You spend all day on the internet.”

Balvin ignores him and takes the opportunity to go through the rest of Nicky’s photos. It’s 90% memes. The rest are photos of his wife.

“Hey, don’t go through my shit,” Nicky says, once he realizes what Balvin’s doing. But Nicky doesn’t make any attempt to get his phone back. He just keeps eating, although now he’s pausing in between bites to harass Balvin.

_“Sapo!”_

Balvin ignores him.

 _“Sapito!”_ Higher pitched this time.

Balvin flips him off.

_“Sapo, sapo, sapo!”_

And then Nicky has run out of food, so he snatches his phone out of Balvin’s hands.

“You’re so nosey man,” he says, pocketing his phone.

Balvin laughs.

“How’s Angélica?” It’s not exactly a subtle change in conversation.

“Jesus,” Nicky says. “I take it back. You are not nosey. You are the nosey- _ist."_

“My name is José, not Jesús,” Balvin says calmly. “You should know that by now.”

Nicky rolls his eyes and laughs, and that makes Balvin laugh, and maybe it’s the absurdity of what he’s said, because they’re known each other for years, or just the fact that they haven’t seen each other in a while, because it wasn’t even that funny, but suddenly they’re laughing hysterically, gasping for breath, and Balvin has tears rolling down his cheeks, and Nicky is pounding the table, and the other customers are looking at them, but they just can’t stop. And as soon as Balvin thinks he’s got himself under control, he looks over at Nicky, whose mouth is wide open and howling, and he loses it all over again.

He finally calms down enough to smack Nicky a couple times, say “come on, come one, we gotta get out of here,” and they’re still laughing as they pay at the counter and push each other out the door.

The high lasts him until they’re almost back to Miami Beach.

Nicky is driving, and he’s singing along to his own song on the radio.

 _“No quiero ser tu amante,”_ he sings at Balvin and grins.

“As if,” Balvin tells him. “You’re not my type.”

“Eh, eh!” Nicky turns to look at him, feigning offense. “I’m a good lookin’ dude! You’d be lucky to have me!”

“Yeah, sure, _I’d_ be the lucky one, look at this beautiful face.” Balvin holds his hand out straight under his chin and tilts his head. He tries to purse his lips and smile at the same time, like the women he’s seen on Instagram. But he can’t quite get his facial muscles to cooperate, so he just puckers up, blows kisses at Nicky.

Nicky laughs and tells Balvin he’s _loco_ and Balvin doesn’t deny it. But he does change the subject.

“How’s Angélica? You never answered my question before.”

Nicky smiles again, and it’s different from how he smiles when they’re joking around. It’s smaller, like a secret.

“She’s great, man, she’s amazing.” Nicky’s not looking at him anymore. “She’s…” Nicky trails off, staring at the road, and his voice has gone soft. “She’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

He sounds so sincere, so happy, that Balvin doesn’t even want to ruin his moment with some sarcastic comment. But he doesn’t really want to hear Nicky go on for hours about his wife, either. He tries to direct the conversation, asks how she’s liking Miami, if she misses Colombia, if _Nicky_ misses Colombia.

Nicky says, yes, they’re great. They love Miami. The love living here, together, in a house. And of course they both miss Colombia, it’s a great place, but did he mention they live here, together, in a house they built together, and how great it is? Balvin doesn’t think he’s ever heard Nicky say the word “great” so many times before.

Balvin shouldn’t be offended. And he’s _not_ , really, he’s not. But he can’t help but wonder how Miami could ever be better, and maybe Nicky is _lying_ , lying about everything because how could you be so happy here?

He’s not really listening to Nicky anymore, although Nicky doesn’t seem to notice. He’s battling with himself, his thoughts. Trying to force them into something other than a cynical denial of Nicky’s obvious happiness. But it’s so _hard_.

The mental gymnastics isn’t even worth it, he tells himself. Just be happy for your friend, like a normal person. Stop being like this.

But once he’s had the thought, it becomes insidious. He can’t shake the negativity, and he wonders why he’s like this. Why he can’t master his own thoughts, for God’s sake. Why he has to doubt so much, to make some nasty, sarcastic little remark, even if it’s just to himself, about everything good that happens.

He doesn’t want to let this ruin his night. But he came out to have a good time, to not live in his head so much, and he can’t help but be a little discouraged.

 

\---

 

Nicky has the solution for his melancholy - apparently he did notice when Balvin spaced out on him in the car. It’s alcohol. Nicky doesn’t drink anymore, but that doesn’t stop him from being an enabler. Balvin lost count after they switched to mixed drinks, but he had _many_ shots before that.

Technically, this is binge drinking, his brain informs him, and just for that intrusive thought, he finishes what’s left in his cup and gets another one. No more thinking. Time to turn his brain off for a little while.

Nicky also has a meme for the situation. It’s a cat with round glasses and a bowtie sitting in front of a chalkboard. The superimposed text says “according to science, alcohol is a solution.” It’s the funniest thing Balvin’s seen today, which maybe isn’t saying much, but honestly, he’s too drunk to analyze right now. Which, again, is the goal.

So he just announces to the table, _“Miren! Miren el gatito! Tiene corbatín!”_ as he shows Nicky’s phone to everyone so the see the cat. And they indulge him, but they don’t seem to think it’s as funny as he does. What a shame.

Then Angélica sneakily takes the phone back from him, and Balvin doesn’t remember when she got here. But it’s okay, because she is happy, here drinking soda water with Nicky, and her being happy makes Nicky happy, and so Balvin’s happy. Really happy. And also... really has to pee.

He struggles out of the booth, but he doesn’t remember where the bathrooms are on this floor. He does have some vague idea of where they are downstairs on the main level, so he heads off in that direction. The table yells after him, but ignores them. He’s an adult. He can make it on his own.

This douchey club is, admittedly, nice, Balvin has to hand it to Nicky. But it’s extremely crowded on the first floor where they haven’t cleared people out. So much so that he can’t even get onto the dance floor, let alone through it, to where he thinks the bathroom is. So he’s just sort of stuck there, watching all the sea of people bob and sway to the music. Just like the real sea, he thinks. Probably just as salty, with all that sweat.

He’s pondering which would be saltier when he hears _“oye, venga!”_ , and someone is grabbing him by the shoulder, and he jumps, but then he has to laugh because it’s just David Mazo.

 _“Ya, ya,_ c’mon,” David says. “They sent me after you, _bobo_. We knew you’d get lost.”

David guides him _around_ the dance floor, genius that he is, and points him in the direction of the bathrooms. Balvin has to admit that he’s grateful. He tells David that, but makes him promise to keep it a secret.

David looks at him like he’s crazy, but not in a mean way. Balvin is used to it. He’s already heard everything David has to say, and that’s probably why David isn’t saying it now. He just keeps ushering Balvin in the right direction, moving them steadily along before any of the club-goers can register who they are. He’s like a sheepdog protecting his flock.

Balvin tells him that also, and this time David laughs, once, before firmly pushing him into the bathroom. Balvin wonders if David is going to come into the stall with him, but he just stands guard outside.

 

\---

 

Balvin feels slightly more lucid now that he’s not so preoccupied with his bladder. Not sober, but not so sloppy drunk anymore. More focused.

Focused enough to have given David the slip once he got out of the bathroom. David is great at all, but Balvin has made up his mind. He doesn’t want a handler right now. No guardian angel.

He’s going to make his own choices, and he’s going to make the wrong ones. He’s tired of working hard and sacrificing and all that shit he really does believe in sometimes. _Really._ It’s just that right now he needs a goddamn break.

He’s wants to get fucked up, and he’s already pretty drunk. He’s looking for a different high, the kind that comes from doing something bad and getting away with it.

He’s edging his way around the dance floor, near the VIP tables, and he just about smacks into what he’s looking for. The universe must have heard him because here is something _very bad_. He should share this with his followers, he thinks. Practice what he preaches. Visualize what you want, and it will appear.

_“Cómo va parce, quiubo pue’?”_

He was right. It does make Maluma laugh.

“Hey man, what are you doing here?” Maluma jumps up and gives him a hug.

“I’m trying to get discovered. I heard that, like, _famous_ people hang out here.” Balvin says, raising his eyebrows conspiratorially. “I’m a new artist. Will you listen to my mixtape?” He picks up Maluma’s drink off the table, pressing it into his hand.

Maluma looks at his own glass, then at Balvin, and it takes him a second, but then he’s laughing and clapping Balvin on the back. “What the hell man, that’s hilarious.”

Maluma finishes the rest of his drink, pours it down his throat. Balvin watches him swallow.

“Where’s your crew?” Maluma asks as he sets the empty glass back on the table.

“Come on,” Balvin says, and he sets off back upstairs. Maluma turns to his group and shrugs. Says that he’s going with Balvin for a minute. They don’t seem to mind.

When they get back to Balvin’s table it’s smaller than when he left. Only Nicky, Angélica, and a few others. David Mazo is nowhere to be found.

“He went home,” Nicky tells Balvin before he can even ask. Then he turns to Maluma and says hey, what’s up, and moves over to make room.

“Huh.” Balvin says, and sits down. Maluma sits right next to him.

They get along well enough. It helps that everyone pretty much knows everyone else already, that they all do the same thing for a living. Soon they’re ordering more drinks and laughing and swapping stories and memories and it’s good, it’s really good. Balvin thought maybe this night was going to end early, but there’s been a revival, and he’s grateful. He didn’t want to go home yet.

Maluma is funny, if a little obnoxious. He talks constantly, always with a story to share: something outrageous he did, something he wanted to do, something he’s going to do tomorrow. And he’s always flirting, with the waitress, with Angélica, with Balvin, hell, he even flirts with Nicky. Balvin thinks it must just be his default behavior, some unconscious need to be charming.

It’s cute, but Balvin is not in the mood to share tonight. He’s stopped drinking a while ago, needs to be clear-headed to put a plan in motion. He’s puzzling over how to get Maluma alone, how to get him to shut up for a minute when suddenly Nicky stands up and announces he and Angélica are leaving, it was great to see everyone, he hopes everyone will make it to the shoot tomorrow in one piece. And just like that, everyone else starts to leave too, making their excuses, saying their goodbyes, and ducking out until it’s just the two of them.

Maluma is quiet for the first time since Balvin kidnapped him away from his people. Balvin turns to look at him, suddenly aware of how close they’re sitting. The table has emptied out, but they’re still right next to each other.

“So,” Balvin begins. He’s actually not sure how to do this. He didn’t think it was going to be so easy.

“Yes?” Maluma is looking only at him now. There’s no one else here, or at least Balvin can’t see them. His security deserves a raise, he thinks.

“I should give security a raise,” Balvin says, and then mentally kicks himself because _why_ would he say that out loud?

But Maluma doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he’s smirking. “Why? Because they’re leaving us alone?”

Balvin wasn’t prepared to be called out like that, and he’s glad it’s dark enough that Maluma probably can’t see him blush.

“I mean, yeah,” Balvin says, and shifts his posture to recline a little, to put a little more goddamn space between them. “If I strangle you now there’s no witnesses. Then I can just write a World Cup anthem in peace. That’s actually why I brought you up here.” Balvin thinks he’s successful in keeping a straight face, but honestly he’s not sure how much control he has over his body anymore.

Maluma smiles and leans forward, repositions himself so they’re just as close as they were before. Actually, they’re closer. Balvin can feel the heat coming off Maluma’s body. He wants to reach out, pull Maluma in and touch for himself, see if Maluma’s skin is really on fire.

Maluma’s eyes drop to look at Balvin’s mouth for what seems like an obscene amount of time. And then he’s looking Balvin in the eye again and asking, “so you lured me here to strangle me? Are you into that kind of thing?”

“No,” Balvin says, and doesn’t move away.

“What are you into?” Maluma asks. He shifts again, and he’s practically in Balvin’s lap.

 _“Piña coladas_ , getting caught in the rain,” Balvin says, and that must have caught Maluma off guard, because he’s backed off, laughing for real. Balvin can breathe again.

“Fuck you man, that’s going to be stuck in my head now.”

Maluma stays where he is, and that gives Balvin a minute to think. Or panic, as it is. Because this is really dangerous. It was one thing to fantasize about self-destruction, throwing himself off the proverbial cliff. But this is real. Maluma is real, right here in front of him, living, breathing… talking again, apparently. He wasn’t listening at all.

Maluma grins at him, not caring about Balvin’s internal conflicts, then stands up, and Balvin doesn’t really know what to do.

 _“No te entiendo,”_ he says. Which is the truth, on more levels than one.

“Come on,” Maluma says.  
  
He takes Balvin's hand and drags him out of the booth. Balvin follows, but quickly snatches his fingers out of Maluma's grasp. Maluma turns around to look at him, and he grins again. Balvin scowls, and Maluma throws his arms up, feigning innocence. Then he takes off running.  
  
And what exactly the fuck is going on, Balvin doesn’t really know. He didn’t see that one coming.  
  
This would be his chance to fix things, to abandon this suicide mission and just leave Maluma alone. But he doesn’t. He runs after Maluma like a dog after a squirrel.

Balvin chases him down the stairs and through a side door. Maluma seems to know some secret exit or something because the door they leave out of takes them into a hallway of the hotel instead of the lobby.

He’s almost caught up, but then Maluma takes off sprinting, shouting something Balvin doesn’t quite catch, and really, this is more cardio than he was planning to do today. He has to laugh, though. What the fuck is wrong with this guy that he keeps running. What the fuck is wrong with _him_ that he keeps following.

They skid to a halt in front of the elevator, and Maluma presses the up button. He’s not winded at all, doesn’t even look phased. Maybe he does this regularly.

The door open up, and Maluma steps calmly inside. Balvin is right behind him.

Inside the elevator, Maluma presses the button for the twentieth floor. They are standing side by side, not touching, not looking at each other, not saying anything at all. Balvin tries not to breathe too loudly.

They’re silent as the elevator moves upward, silent and still. It’s so different from just minutes, _seconds_ before, laughing and yelling and chasing. The sudden contrast makes Balvin uncomfortable. This whole thing makes him uncomfortable.

He doesn’t know if he should even be pursuing this. He doesn’t know if Maluma is fucking with him, or if he’s serious, or even what he’d be serious about. But he doesn’t like how much control Maluma has. This was supposed to be _his_ bad decision.

Balvin turns to him, about to say something, but Maluma holds up a finger and shushes him. He presses the finger to Balvin’s lips and winks. Maybe he’s trying to be playful again, but Balvin isn’t in the mood anymore. He shoves Maluma’s hand away and just stares for a minute before he has to say something, because who does this guy think he is?

 _“Qué carajo,”_ Balvin says, less of a question and more of a plea. He needs something to work with here. He doesn’t want to make a fool of himself, at least not any more than he already has. But Maluma doesn’t budge, doesn’t say anything. He meets Balvin’s eyes, and his face is unreadable.

It’s a warning sign, a flashing light that tells him no, danger, wrong way. But he’s really made up his mind now. He’s all in. Where’s the fun in being careful about how he destroys himself?

He steps into Maluma’s space, and Maluma doesn’t flinch. So Balvin kisses him.

Maluma’s lips are soft. Balvin can feel him smiling before they part, and then Balvin’s tongue is in his mouth, and they’re not fucking around anymore. Maluma presses him backwards into the corner of the elevator, traps him there and puts his hands on Balvin’s skin, creeping under his shirt to touch his stomach, his back, his ribs. Maluma tastes like vodka and smells like other people’s sweat. He’s sticky where Balvin licks his neck, and he moans when Balvin sucks at his pulse point. Balvin is not gentle, and Maluma retaliates, groping him hard over his jeans. Balvin shudders.

Any sense of agency Balvin was feeling disappears. This was not his choice, who was he kidding. This was divinely ordained. Fate.

Because _no one else gets on the elevator,_ and he almost thinks they’re going to fuck right here in this little metal box until the bell alerts them to the door opening up, and then it’s maybe ten feet to the room, and if this wasn’t meant to be then why is it so easy?

Because this isn’t even Maluma’s room. He tells Balvin that as they’re running again, stumbling into what was supposed to be one of Maluma’s sound tech’s room, or something like that. Maluma’s not even staying in this hotel, he just borrowed the keys for tonight. For this.

Balvin was never in control. What a joke.

The door is barely shut when Balvin slams Maluma against the wall. Hard. Hard enough to silence his own thoughts. He didn’t mean to be so rough, but the little shit deserves it, he tells himself. Or maybe he tells Maluma. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t really care.

Balvin has Maluma’s shirt unbuttoned but not yet off, one side sliding down his shoulder. He pushes it out of the way as he kisses Maluma’s chest, licks his collarbone, before zeroing in on his throat, a predator going in for the kill.

He wants so badly to bite down, to leave a little temporary tattoo. He knows he can’t, but wants to see how far he can push it. He nips at Maluma’s neck, lets his teeth graze the skin. Maluma moans, but he also pushes Balvin away, shakes his head no.

Balvin backs off, and Maluma takes the opportunity to slip out from where Balvin had him pinned against the wall.

“Come on,” he says. _“A la cama.”_

Balvin follows, again, gives up the little bit of control he’d wrestled away from Maluma. He lets Maluma push him onto the edge of the bed, unbutton his pants and drag them over his hips.

He is so hard. His hips push upwards involuntarily, and Maluma steadies him, hands keeping him in place as he runs his thumbs over Balvin’s hip bones. Maluma drops his head down, and Balvin can feel his breath and then his _teeth_ as he bites the waistband of his underwear and pulls them off with his mouth. He presses his palms flat against Balvin’s thighs and pushes them apart, leaning in again to kiss gently at the base of Balvin’s cock. He runs his tongue up and down each side, sloppy, getting him wet with saliva. Maluma blows, and the cool air makes Balvin shiver.

 _“Ay,”_ he groans.

He sits up and stares at Maluma in between his legs. It’s such a pretty sight. His cheeks have hollowed out as he gets the tip of Balvin’s dick in his mouth, sucking hard while he flicks his tongue along some spot underneath that makes Balvin’s toes curl. It’s almost too much, a nauseating, overwhelming pleasure that causes him to fist his hands in the bed cover and twist.

Maluma notices, grabs Balvin’s right hand and guides it to his head. Balvin runs his fingers through Maluma’s hair, not wanting to be so rough. But then Maluma takes the opportunity to swallow his cock, and it’s all he can do to not tear Maluma’s hair out by the roots, leave him bald on one side.

His nose presses against Balvin’s pelvis as he bobs up and down, making Balvin wonder, fleetingly, how many times he’s done this before. He’s heard the rumors, they all have. He’s sure Maluma has heard the rumors about him, and that’s why they’re here, now, doing _this._

Maluma builds up a rhythm, deep and steady but slow. Not quite enough to get him off, but just enough to keep him on edge. It's intentional, Balvin thinks. He looks down again, at Maluma taking his sweet time. He is beautiful like this, open and pliant and vulnerable, just waiting to be used.

So Balvin does use him. He runs his hand through Maluma’s hair again, and tugs, with intention this time. That seems to be what Maluma was waiting for, because he moans, loudly, and Balvin can feel the vibrations around his dick. He holds Maluma firmly, fingers caught at the nape of his neck, keeping Maluma’s head where he wants it while he fucks Maluma’s mouth until he comes down his throat.

“Wow,” Maluma says, wiping his lips. “I couldn’t taste that at all.”

Balvin doesn’t respond, his brain momentarily short-circuited. He just lets himself fall back on the bed, enjoying the little aftershocks of pleasure crashing over his body. But he’s interrupted as Maluma climbs on top of him, still hard, still with his pants on. Balvin runs his palm over his erection, and Maluma bucks his hips and whines. “Make me come,” he says.

Balvin undoes the the button on Maluma’s pants and sticks his hands inside. Maluma doesn’t have any underwear on.

“Doesn’t that get uncomfortable?” Balvin has to ask him.

“Shut up,” Maluma says, and kisses him. Balvin doesn’t even taste semen, and he gives Maluma silent kudos for his blowjob skills.

He shoves Maluma’s pants down and off, gets his hand around Maluma’s dick. He strokes, and Maluma wimpers. Balvin spits on his palm, gets Maluma as wet as possible, and it doesn’t take long before Maluma is coming, fucking Balvin’s hand and spilling all over his stomach.

 

\---

 

Balvin wakes up, startled and alone, to some musical notes, followed by Maluma’s voice singing his own name, _Maluma ba-by_. It is loud and obnoxious, made all the worse by the hangover Balvin knows is lurking, ready to attack as soon as he can muster the energy to get out of bed. He slaps ineffectively at his phone, but the song keeps playing, _apenas sale el sol y tú te vas corriendo._

“Shut uppppp. I’m still here,” Balvin whines. But it’s no use. He forces himself to wake up, swings his legs around to sit up, and then his head starts pounding.

“Fuuuuuuuck.” It’s more of a growl than anything else. But he manages to turn the alarm off. He looks at his phone. It’s 7:01 am.

Balvin rubs his eyes, then concentrates all his willpower into standing up.  Confident he’s not going to topple over, he heads towards the bathroom because he desperately needs some water, and this hotel room is not a suite, just a regular room with no kitchen.

There’s a little plastic wrapped cup next to the sink, but it’s very small, so Balvin just sticks his head under the faucet to drink. He tells himself he gets points for being environmentally friendly.

He thinks he might just stay here for a while, drowning himself very slowly in the sink, but then someone would find his naked corpse and he wouldn’t want to have to explain that to his parents. Or, actually, he wouldn’t get to explain. Because he’d be dead.

He turns the water off and looks at himself in the mirror, which he immediately regrets. He looks like absolute shit. And… there’s dried cum on his belly. Good thing he didn’t go with the sink drowning plan.

He gets in the shower and uses up the entire mini bottle of shampoo. He still doesn’t feel totally clean, but then again, the water must be pretty hard here, because he didn’t get nearly as sudsy as he’d like. And that is the _entire_ reason he feels this way, no weird hangups about last night, no sir.

Even if that were the case, _which it’s not_ , he doesn’t have time to unpack his sexuality. He has more pressing matters, like finding some clothes because he can’t show up to shoot his video in the same thing he was wearing yesterday. Nicky will definitely have something to say, and that's not a conversation he can really navigate right now.

He’s rooting around in the duffel bag of whoever was supposed to sleep here last night when he hears the door open. He freezes.

“What are you doing?” Maluma asks him. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder and a paper bag in his hand. He also has a two cups of coffee in a little tray. All of those things have the Starbucks logo on them.

Balvin stands up and adjusts the towel around his waist, stepping away from the mess he made. Maluma watches him, amused. He kicks the door closed behind him.

“I need to borrow some clothes,” Balvin says, brain still not functional enough to think of anything but the truth.

Maluma walks over and hands him one of the cups. “Here, have this first.”

Balvin says thank you and takes it. He drinks slowly and tastes black coffee.

Maluma puts the rest of his things down at the desk in the room and turns to look at Balvin, who is still standing, holding the cup.

“We can switch if you want,” Maluma says. “I didn’t know what you like so I just got it plain, but mine has soy milk.” Maluma sits down on the chair in front of the desk.

“No, this is fine.”

The only other chair in the room is an armchair that Balvin doesn’t feel like moving, so he just sits on the edge of the bed. Maluma hands him a warm cardboard bowl and several packets with dried fruit, nuts, and brown sugar, respectively.

“Oatmeal?” Balvin asks, as if he’d never seen it before. He wishes he wasn’t being so fucking awkward, but this is not what he was expecting the morning after to be like. He doesn’t really know what to do, and his brain’s autopilot seems to have taken over, choosing the path of least resistance, the least amount of decisions to make. Which, as it turns out, means adding all the toppings to his little bowl and mixing. An easy task for him to accomplish quickly.

“It’s good for you,” Maluma tells him. He doesn’t seem phased by Balvin’s behavior. Or maybe he’s just being polite. But either way, it’s reassuring, and Balvin relaxes as they eat their breakfast together.

“Did you set the alarm on my phone?” Balvin asks him, once they’ve finished. The containers are thrown away - there go his environmental points - and they’re both lying on the bed now, Balvin shirtless because Maluma’s sound tech must be approximately four feet tall and ninety pounds. He couldn’t find anything in the suitcase that fit him except a pair of the world’s ugliest green track pants that zip off at the knee, for Christ’s sake. But being clothed and fed makes him feel better, and even his hangover has abated, albeit only a little bit. “With your own song? How did you even unlock it?”

Maluma laughs. “I used your finger once you fell asleep. I didn’t want you to miss your shoot, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be here in time to wake you up.”

“Oh,” Balvin says. “Where did you go?” It’s not really his business, but he decides he doesn’t care.

“One of my friends hit me up. She lives here, and I haven’t seen her in a while, so we just met up for a bit.”

“Huh,” Balvin says, not sure what do do with this information now that he has it. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Yes, _mamá,”_ Maluma says and rolls his eyes at Balvin. He’s smiling, though. “I came and took a nap here for a little bit. I just had to go get some stuff from the other hotel this morning. You know, I have a lot to do. I’m a busy guy. There’s not that many hours in the day. Gotta take advantage of every second.”

Balvin rolls his eyes right back at Maluma, even if he agrees internally, and makes an unimpressed face.

“Okay, fine,” Maluma says, conceding Balvin’s unspoken point about how obnoxious that sounded. “But it’s true. And I brought you breakfast, so, you know, you’re welcome.” He nudges Balvin.

“I said thank you.” Balvin nudges him back back. And he leans over to kiss Maluma, but Maluma stops him.

“Wait. Do you want to get high?”

“What, now?” Balvin asks, incredulously.

“Yeah,” Maluma says, and he’s already hopped up and grabbed a little pen vaporizer from his backpack. “Yeah, it’s good. My friend hooked me up.”

“Oh my god,” Balvin says, sitting up. “Are you seventeen?”

Maluma turns the vape on and settles himself back on the bed, next to Balvin. “If I’m seventeen, you’re fifty." He inhales. “Here, c’mon. It’ll help your hangover.”

“I’m not hungover,” Balvin lies, but he can tell Maluma doesn’t believe him. “You’re just peer pressuring me to smoke weed!”

“Okay, I won’t share then. Loser.” Maluma tries to snatch his hand back from where he had been offering Balvin the pen, but Balvin catches his wrist, pinning it against the bed. Maluma’s eyes widen briefly, but he doesn't protest.

Balvin grabs Maluma’s other hand too, then rolls on top of him, using his body weight to keep Maluma in place. He leans in slowly, and Maluma closes his eyes.

Balvin brushes ever so faintly against Maluma’s lips before he swerves, choosing to take a long pull from the the vaporizer instead. Maluma’s eyes open immediately, and he’s laughing, surprised. Maluma bucks his hips up, trying to dislodge him, but Balvin holds steady. He exhales the vapor in Maluma’s face.

Maluma wrinkles his nose. “That was rude.” But that’s all he gets out before Balvin bites his lower lip, gently, and then his mouth is only open to let Balvin’s tongue in between his teeth.

They trade the pen back and forth between kisses until it’s empty.

Maluma was right, it is good. It is _so_ good. The high lets him focus on the present and only the present: the way Maluma moans when he runs his tongue along the outer shell of his ear down across to his throat, kissing his jugular. The skin is so thin here, Balvin thinks he can feel the blood rushing just beneath the surface, the oxygen caught in his throat when Maluma’s breath hitches.

Balvin gets Maluma’s shirt off, tosses it to the side. He traces the tattoo on Maluma’s chest, fingers running over the lion’s features as he watches the tiger on his own hand follow. Balvin growls, low and rumbly, and it makes Maluma laugh, his chest rising and falling and Balvin with it, on top of him.

Balvin moves lower, runs his hands over Maluma’s ribs, then his abs, his waist, feeling all the muscles and bones under his skin, everything contained so neatly inside. He leaves kisses all over Maluma’s stomach, feeling how smooth it is everywhere except some whispy hairs under his naval. Balvin gives this area extra attention, and Maluma squirms, ticklish. Balvin bites gently, and Maluma moans a little. Balvin can feel how hard he is, and that makes _him_ moan.

Maluma, just as much as the drugs, is intoxicating. Balvin could spend all day here. He has the button of Maluma’s pants undone, and he’s ready, pausing only to grin up at Maluma, before pulling the zipper down as slowly as he can, savoring the frustration on Maluma’s face. Maluma whines, and Balvin stops unzipping, loving the way Maluma sighs and deflates, submitting entirely to Balvin’s pacing.

He’s just about to give Maluma what he wants when he’s interrupted, knocked out of this dream and back into reality by his phone. It rings, startling him so much that he actually jumps, and it’s only by luck that he doesn’t do any serious damage with the zipper.

Balvin looks at the screen, and it’s Rebeca, his manager. Fuck.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck fuck fuck!”

He denies the call, but he has no choice. He has to leave. It’s eight o’clock and he was supposed to be at the studio early.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Maluma as he runs around, looking for his shirt and shoes and texting Rebeca that he’s on his way. His shoes are under the bed, but his shirt has disappeared.

“It’s fine,” Maluma says, and hands him his own shirt. “I can fit into Pablo’s clothes. I’ll just raid his suitcase, too.”

“Who’s Pablo?” Balvin asks, doing up the buttons as fast as he can. He looks ridiculous, still wearing the green track bottoms now paired with this paisley loaner shirt. But it’ll have to do.

“My sound tech,” Maluma laughs. “The guy whose room we trashed.”

“It’s not trashed,” Balvin says, pulling up Uber and praying there’s someone nearby. Fortunately there’s a car less than five minutes away. His driver’s name is Rose. He does a quick scan of the room, trying to remember if he left anything else. But he really doesn’t have time.

He opens the door and peeks into the hallway to make sure it’s clear. He’s about to leave when Maluma stops him.

“Hey, call me later. I’m going to Vegas today to see my girlfriend, but just hit me up or something.”

“What,” Balvin says, and Maluma doesn’t answer, just kisses him goodbye and shoves him out the door.

“What,” Balvin says, again, alone in the elevator riding down to the lobby.

“Hello,” Balvin says to Rose, a nice Haitian lady waiting for him outside the Fontainebleau in a Toyota Corolla, and then “wait, can you stop here?” as he notices a little corner bodega with t-shirts hanging outside. He runs inside and buys one with zombie Bob Marley on the front. It’s actually kind of cool.

“Sorry,” Balvin says to Rebeca as he runs out of the car and into the studio. He left Rose a tip in the app, as much as it will let him, and hopes she doesn’t think he’s an asshole.

“What are you wearing?” Rebeca asks him. “Actually, I don’t care. Just get in there.”

“Yes ma’am,” Balvin says.

Everyone is waiting for him, of course. He sees Nicky goofing off with one of the production assistants, and he goes over to say hello, ask where they want him.

“You’re late!” Nicky accuses and he’s a little angry, Balvin can tell, but he also looks embarrassed. “That’s my fault. I shouldn’t have brought you out yesterday.”

“No, man,” Balvin says, “It’s all on me. My bad choices. And I’m sorry.”

Nicky says it's okay, claps him on the back, and pulls him in for a hug. They’re interrupted though, by Jessy, who’s been alerted to Balvin’s arrival.

“Hey, glad you decided to join us,” he says, and Balvin apologizes again, but Jessy just shrugs. “If you don’t show up on time it’s not my problem. You’re the one who needs the video. They already paid me.” He eyes Balvin’s clothes. “Nice outfit.”

Balvin can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, and Jessy doesn’t expand on his thoughts, just ushers them into their places, saying, “alright! Let’s get going!”

As far as video shoots go, this one is pretty easy. They film almost everything in one place, on a white stage in front of these large compartments someone has built. A few of them have a shallow, tunnel-like thing built into the back, and they’re all illuminated with color changing lights.

Balvin doesn’t even have to do much, just bop around and sing. He leaves the real choreography to the dancers they’ve hired... and Nicky, who has forgiven his sins. Or at least, he’s too distracted by all the beautiful women on set to be angry anymore. He alternates between flirting and trying to out-dance them, but neither works out for him. They’re all professionals.

His only wardrobe change includes zipping off his pants off into shorts and grabbing another Rasta-colored shirt that makes Rebeca shake her head before grabbing her stuff and heading out the door. Apparently she’s not as into the whole college stoner aesthetic as much as Jessy is, but Balvin doesn’t take it personally.

He thinks this day isn’t such a mess after all, but then his karma catches up to him. It turns out the compartments _rotate,_ and Jessy wants them in there while they spin. Balvin wishes he’d smoked a lot more of Maluma’s pipe because his high has pretty much worn off by now, meaning his hangover is back with a vengeance. Fucking perfect timing.

It’s a good thing he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, because it’s about all Balvin can do to not throw up when they toss him in the hell tunnel. They’ve got him upside down, sliding around, and he’s praying to every deity he can think of just to get through this because they actually might fire him from his own song if he projectile vomits all over like he wants to.

Somehow, he makes it to the end with his dignity mostly intact. They’ve gotten all the takes Jessy wants, and Balvin has not thrown up. He’s saying his goodbyes, thanking everyone for their time and apologizing again when Rebeca comes over to him. She must have come back to the set at some point. Balvin didn’t notice.

“Let me give you a ride.” She has her purse clutched tightly in one hand, and her phone in the other.

“Oh,” Balvin says. “Thanks, but I was going to go with Nicky…” but he trails off as he sees her frown, shaking her head.

“Okay, sure,” he says, knowing this is not a fight he wants to pick at all. “Thank you.” He lets Nicky know they’ll have to meet up later, and Nicky hugs him again, says it’s fine, come over to the house whenever.

Balvin gets in Rebeca’s black SUV, and she doesn’t say anything, just pulls out of the studio parking lot and drives. They’re not heading towards the hotel, as far as he can tell. She takes them away from the city, to a neighborhood in one of the suburbs and parks outside a one-story house, one of several cars outside. She unbuckles her seat belt but make no motion to get out, only pivots to look at Balvin.

“Open my purse,” Rebeca says, face serious, and Balvin obeys, unzipping the black leather bag. Right on top is a button-up shirt, loud paisley pattern screaming at him that he has fucked up. He closes the bag, and turns to look at Rebeca.

“Your Uber driver gave that to me this morning,” she says, taking her purse back from Balvin. “You left it in the back of her car, and she was nice enough to let me know that you’d forgotten it.”

Balvin doesn’t say anything. Can’t, really. He has no excuses. He shifts uncomfortably, unable to meet Rebeca’s eyes.

“Why did you leave Maluma’s shirt in your driver’s car? Why the fuck did you have it in the first place?”

Again, there are no excuses. He has to ask, though, how she knows whose shirt it is.

Rebeca purses her lips, says “really,” and it’s not a question at all. She shows him a couple paparazzi photos on her phone of Maluma taken that morning in Starbucks. They were posted to a Spanish-language gossip blog, and the caption says “Maluma en Miami!” There are also some selfies he’d taken with various fans, posted to their Instagrams.

“Look, José. What you do on your time is your business. And really, I don’t care if you’re gay.”

She is trying to be casual, and Balvin appreciates that, but his first reaction is to wince, and then he feels very ugly for doing so. How many interviews has he given speaking out against homophobia? But when it comes to himself, it makes him uncomfortable. He wants to correct Rebeca, explain that he’s not, that he likes women also, but the moment has passed, and it doesn’t even matter anyway. This is about him being careless, not about who he wants to sleep with.

Rebeca continues, “seriously, I don’t think it should be a big deal, and you should be able to do whatever you want. Whoever you want. But it’s my business to manage you. And if you show up late to shoots because you stayed up all night with some guy that’s going to make you a lot less marketable! For many reasons.”

“He’s not some guy,” Balvin says, and only after the words are out of his mouth does he realize how that sounds. He backtracks quickly, “Fuck, I mean…” but Rebeca cuts him off.

 _“Do not_ tell me that you are in a _relationship_ with fucking _Maluma!”_ she says, voice emphasizing each word louder and louder until she’s practically yelling. She smacks the steering wheel when she says his name. Balvin jumps.

“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” She sighs, recomposing herself. “I mean, yes, absolutely tell me if you’re in a relationship with him, but come on, José, do you really see that working out well for you?”

“No,” Balvin says, and he knows immediately that it’s the truth, which saddens him more that he’d like to admit. “No, I’m not, we’re not. I just meant that he’s not some random guy, from the club or whatever. He’s like me. He has something to lose, too.”

“Okay,” Rebeca says, taking another deep breath. “Yes, that’s true. But for the love of God, be more careful. Unless you _want_ to be out, in which case tell me now because we’re going to have to do a lot of prep work. And also I’m gonna be kind of pissed, because I already did a lot of damage control at that club so if it was all for nothing...” she trails off, and raises one eyebrow at him.

Balvin sighs. “Fuck,” he says, “No, I don’t want to be out. I mean, I’m not gay, I don’t think. I don’t know what I am. But I don’t want to figure it out in front of the whole world.” He slumps down in the passenger seat. He feels very small.

Rebeca leans over and touches his arm. She’s awkward about it like she always is, but that makes Balvin appreciates the gesture even more.

“Hey, it’s fine. _No pasó nada._ I saved your ass, okay? Just be smart, please. There are healthier ways to deal with stress. I know you know that.”

“Thank you,” Balvin says, and Rebeca actually leans over to hug him. She’s warm and soft and smells nice, but Balvin pulls away early because he’s already embarrassed himself enough in front of his manager, he doesn’t want to cry in front of her, too.

“Okay,” Rebeca says. “I’m going to make this go away. You stay here.” She picks up her purse and gets out of the SUV, walking over to the house. She rings the doorbell, and an older lady answers, throwing her hands in the air when she sees Rebeca and pulling her in immediately. Rebeca disappears inside.

Balvin is glad she left the car running and hopes that it means she’ll be back soon. Regardless, he pulls out his phone, needing a distraction. He scrolls through Twitter, Instagram, posts a few things on both. Then he open Snapchat and sees that Nicky has put up some pictures from the shoot. His sister is on vacation. His cousins have gone to a football match.

Then, there’s Maluma. In Vegas. With his girlfriend. And that’s all Balvin really needs to see, so he closes Snapchat.

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, or what he’s supposed to be feeling. He has no right to be angry, after all, that’s exactly what Maluma told him he was going to do. He shouldn’t be jealous, either, because it’s not like they’re together. He won’t be calling, though. He knows that for sure.

He doesn’t get the chance to ruminate on his emotions because Rebeca is coming back. Balvin watches her struggle with the door, a trash bag in one hand and a stack of containers in the other. She sets the containers down, then grabs the shirt out of her purse and stuffs it in the bag. The whole thing goes in the can and gets rolled out to the curb. She pauses briefly to use some hand sanitizer, then picks up the containers and unlocks her car. Balvin thinks he probably could have helped at some point, but she’d told him to stay put.

She smells like food when she gets back in the SUV.

“This is my aunt’s house,” Rebeca says. “She always makes me take something home when I visit. Even though she knows I’m not staying long. Do you want this? It’s _arroz con pollo.”_

“Sure,” Balvin says. He still hasn’t eaten, and it smells amazing. “Thank your aunt for me.”

The ride back to his hotel is uneventful. Rebeca doesn’t lecture him anymore. She even lets him eat in her car, although she does glance over every few minutes to make sure he’s not making a mess. He eats as neatly as he can, but he makes a mental note to send her a gift certificate for a detailing. It’s the least he can do.

She leaves back in his room with strict orders to not do anything stupid. He smiles sheepishly, and she gives him another hug. This is the most touching they’ve done since they were forced to pose together for a ill-thought out photoshoot, and Balvin almost doesn’t want her to leave. But she has a lot on her plate for tomorrow, Balvin knows, meeting Juanes to finalize the details of his upcoming tour and then a flight back home to California. He won’t hold her up.

She says goodbye, and then Balvin is alone.

He showers, then lies down on the bed in the hotel room, exhausted but unable to fall asleep. He watches the fan circle around and collects his thoughts. He needs to get himself together, he thinks. This wasn’t supposed to be a vacation. He still has a million projects in the works, and he needs to focus. He texts Nicky that he won't be able to come over, and Nicky says not to worry about it. Balvin puts his phone away.

He breathes deeply and closes his eyes. His intention is to meditate, like he hasn’t been able to do these days, to check in with himself.

He starts slowly, feeling the weight of his body on the bed, then the air moving through his lungs, and the soft sheets against his skin. He imagines sinking downwards, melting, and he slows his breath, pausing between inhales and exhales.

He tries not to think about all that he’s done in the past twenty four hours, but his mind wanders. He reels his thoughts in time and again, bringing them back to his breath, but eventually he can’t control them anymore. He lets himself remember the way Maluma kisses and what he looks like naked, and it would be easy to get lost in that for a while. But then he remembers what Nicky and Rebeca look like, disappointed in him and the choices he’s made, and he physically shudders, imagining unthinkable situations in which someone _finds out_ about the choices he’s made. He thinks about his existential terror and wonders if that’s why he did what he did.

Once he starts, he can’t stop. The dam holding back his thoughts breaks, and they come gushing out, overflowing him with emotion. Everything he’s been trying to repress, with sex or weed or alcohol or sheer willpower, comes crashing down on top of him, an onslaught of things he's been trying not to deal with, been putting off for later. A reckoning.

He has no choice but to deal with the mess he's made, the feelings he's compartmentalized, hidden away to figure out some other time. There is no other time. He can't run away anymore.

He lets himself feel. Anger, guilt, shame, fear, lust, jealousy, disappointment. Each is worse than the last, but at least he feels _something_. He doesn’t cry, although he considers it, weeping uncontrollably for hours, mourning the loss of his protective outer layer, his exoskeleton, the numbness that keeps him from getting hurt again but also from feeling anything real. He doesn't, though. He lets it go unceremoniously. Good riddance.

He is tired now, and he just wants to sleep, to wake up tomorrow and try again. He is drained, but the catharsis was long overdue, and he feels better for it.

No more bullshit, he tells himself. Grow up.

He hums, suddenly thinking of a new melody, and he likes the way it sounds. He sings, just nonsense at first, but then an idea comes together. He grabs the notepad on the end table and writes down what’s on his mind so he won’t forget in the morning, and then he lets himself rest.

_Tantas son las horas._

**Author's Note:**

> In trying to not write PWP it seems I've written eleven thousand words for a fandom that doesn't exist. Be the change you want to see in the world, I guess.
> 
> The video Balvin and Nicky are shooting is [X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_I_D_8Z4sJE).


End file.
